The challenge…

From: ShortLilQT721@aol.com
To: fyrepower42@hotmail.com

Subject: Your challenge dahling

Date: Sun, 2 Mar 2003 14:47:59 EST

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Here you go... Have fun with this one!

Requirements:

TIME: Present day fic

PAIRING (Choose two):
Oscar
Grown up!Les
Boots
Swifty

MUST INCLUDE OR REFERENCE (At least eight of the following):
A loofah
a swing set
headphones
strawberries
a Snitch action figure
a golf cart
Pickles
Super glue
Cold chinese food
A green highlighter

ALSO MUST INCLUDE OR REFERENCE: At least four people in NJL

FOLLOWING LINES MUST BE USED:

"Bet they didn't do it like THIS in 1899"

"The newspaper told me to do it!"

"Secrets, secrets are no fun, Secrets are for everyone!"

Good luck!

~S

The result…

Summer Nights and Broken Broadcasts

The swing set was still damp from the previous night's rain, the bars encrusted with a thick coat of reddish brown rust that flaked off when he ran his fingers along it. He wasn't sure whether the swing, a rough, unforgiving plastic board would even hold him, but after the initial screaming and groaning at his sudden weight it settled down and even let him move slowly back and forth.

"Want me to push you?" The other's voice was soft and kind, but Swifty felt like he could punch him for breaking the solemn silence. Instead he pushed himself off from the ground, ignoring the spots of rust that rained down onto his unruly hair.

Boots stood uncomfortably in the patch of weeds next to the swing set, watching his boyfriend sink deeper and deeper into himself. A movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He quietly abandoned his post by the swing set and picked his way among the wreckage of the backyard to where two squirrels were playing, running in and out of an old golf cart. As soon as he had taken a few steps they sensed him and bolted, but Boots made his way along, only stopping when he was practically inside the old rig. The sudden absence of creaking and the burning at the back of his neck told Boots that Swifty had stopped swinging, and was twisted around, staring after him.

The golf cart must have once been a brilliant shade of white, as most golf carts are, but now bugs crawled and lichen grew among the chipped layers of dirt and grime. The brake pedal was missing, the windshield broken, and one door hung crookedly on its hinges, the other completely missing.

"Don't touch it," Swifty said, and Boots jumped, not having heard his approach. Swifty stood at his shoulder, his eyes sad. "Don't disturb it."

Boots didn't reply, but after a moment he placed a tentative arm around Swifty's shoulders, and was glad when the other leaned into the embrace.

"Do you want to go now?" Boots asked quietly, his face buried in Swifty's hair. Swifty nodded silently, and the two turned to leave.

A screen door swung open, slamming harshly against cheap wood.

"Hey! HEY! 'Oo the 'ell ahr you?" Boots froze, his arm dropping from Swifty's shoulders, and stared at the burly man framed at the backdoor of the trailer. Dirty jeans and a stained white tank top were in sharp contrast to his piercing blue eyes, which stared the two down angrily. Boots felt himself grow smaller and took a step back.

"From poor Asians to white trash," Swifty remarked.

"You didn't tell me someone lived here."

"You didn't ask."

"HEY! Git th' fuck offa my land!"

"Who's out there, hon?" A sugary, lilting voice interrupted.

"Nothin' babe."

Another figure joined the man, this one slender and still tying a robe onto her body. She too stared out at them, and Swifty squirmed under her gaze. The woman drew closer to the man, nearly hanging off of his arm, one hand twining through his dirty blonde hair.

"Want me to get the gun, baby?"

He grunted in reply, and that's when Swifty and Boots fled.

"Goddamn faggots," Spot Conlon growled, taking the gun roughly from his wife. "Bolt th' doors 'n case we didn't scare 'em enough." Skylar "Falco" Conlon hurried to obey, her pink slippers slapping on the worn linoleum floor.

+

They drove in silence for a good time, back to the city. Boots gripped the steering wheel tightly, listening to WBZ while Swifty hunted through the mess in the backseat. Neither seemed willing to break the silence that had only built up since they had made their escaped and sped off in Boots' old Toyota, an '86 Golf. He turned it up at the traffic report, then pulled into a gas station.

"Want anything?"

Swifty brushed a soda can off his thigh and shook his head. A moment later he cranked down his window and yelled for Boots' attention, who was only a few yards away. He returned. Swifty stuck his head out the window, twisting it to an awkward angle.

"See if they have any pickles. Ko-"

"Kosher Dill, I know, I know," Boots smiled and ruffled his hair, then disappeared into the store. Swifty glared after him, but his mock annoyance disappeared quickly. He plopped back onto the seat, removed an old 'Rolling Stone' magazine from under himself and rolled the window up. Under the seat he found what he had been searching for and climbed back over into the front.

-

Kosher Dill, the kind with the bird on the label - somehow there was a bottle in the gas station. Right next to the milk. Boots reached forward to pull the freezer door open, only to find his hand plunging into empty - but frigid - air. A short woman with highlighted brown hair stood to his right, holding the door open with her foot while she reached in and snatched the jar from its resting place. Boots watched with a gaping mouth as she kicked the door shut (thus smashing his fingers) and shuffled off without a second glance in his direction.

"Excuse me?"

She turned and studied him with curious green eyes. "Yeah?"

Now that he had her attention, Boots wasn't exactly sure what to say.

"Ah… I was trying to get that pickle jar."

"What, this?" She glanced down at the bottle. "Hmm. Too slow, eh?" Boots shifted uncomfortably. "What do you need it for?" She asked after a second, still eyeing him with that curious manner.

Boots glanced around, as if to make sure Swifty wasn't in the store.

"Well… see… my boyfriend is kind of depressed, and-"

"Boyfriend, eh?" she took a packet of gum from the adjourning rack and popped a piece in her mouth. She chomped at it loudly, studying Boots, then tossed the jar at him. "Ehh, just take it."

Boots fumbled and almost dropped the jar. He secured it under his arm and let his features relax in relief.

"Hey, thanks… thanks Shortie," he said to the woman, immediately regretting his choice of a nickname. But she just shrugged, accepting it.

"Sure," she said, blowing a bubble and then stalking off again. "Sure."

-

"Here," Boots said, slipping back into his seat, the cushion bouncing a little. "Comfort foods. Pickles, Tropica orange juice - oh, looks like you found the cold Chinese food."

Swifty fished around the lo mien with his chopsticks and nodded.

"Chicken," he said. "It's a little moldy-ish, but still tastes good."

"Of course." Boots paused. "You ok?"

Swifty pretended to be very interested in picking up an onion. Eventually he put the grease stained box down and opened the pickles. "Yeah."

Boots didn't answer, just waited for Swifty to talk. He flipped through the 'Boston Globe' he had just picked up for the comics.

"I mean," Swifty continued, finishing off a pickle. "I don't know what I expected. Not… you know… not my family, but certainly not… 'that.'"

Boots looked up from 'Foxtrot.'

"A lot change?"

"No, you know? Nothing changed. Nothing."

A pause.

"Do you want to head back? Rush hour is near over."

"No. Pickle?"

+

"Where are we going?" Swifty peered over his feet and through the windshield. He drained the last of his orange juice and threw it in the back, then turned to Boots, who was trying to get the FM radio to work. "Huh?"

"What?" Boots looked up. "Oh. Ah, Cambridge."

"Cambridge? Why?"

"Dunno. Can I have another pickle?" Swifty obliged. "The newspaper told me to do it. They're having some kind of festival up there." He handed a section of the paper to Swifty, who scanned the lines describing the festival, marked with a green highlighter.

"All It says is 'local festival.'"

"Yeah - it'll be good, they'll just have local stuff - food, crafts." He grinned, "beer."

"I could go for a beer."

"Here's another gas station. Wanna empty out?"

"Why not?"

"Do you really need me to list the reasons?"

"Good point. Pull in."

Boots pulled into a space next to the dumpster and hopped out of the car. He met Swifty's gaze over the top of the car, then both of them opened the side doors simultaneously. Boxes, food, cans, and the odd baseball glove immediately tumbled out to the pavement.

"Ok, we'll each start on our own sides and work in towards the middle."

"Sounds good."

"Cambells soup?"

"Toss it."

"It's tomato…"

"Ok fine, throw it in the front."

"How long has it been since we cleaned this?"

"Uh…"

"Nevermind."

"Nice headphones."

"Give me those!"

Eventually the two just dove inside and dug furiously at the accumulated junk, throwing it out the doors without even glancing to see what they were getting rid of.

"Hey, how long you suppose this glue's been on the seat?" Swifty asked, reaching in for another pickle.

"You can see the seat? Damn, you're ahead of me."

"Pass me that hammer, maybe I can chip it off."

"Here. Ah, we're running low on pickles," Boots informed him, taking one of the last ones. "Well, the car's almost empty anyway. We should be heading out. Tonight's the festival's opening night."

"Ok - wait, hold on." Swifty tossed an arm full of junk into the dumpster and hurried into the gas station's store. Boots emptied his own load into the trash and then brushed a few crumbs off the now-recognizable backseats before sinking into his own seat. A moment later Swifty came running out, stopped by the dumpster for a moment, then jumped into the car. With a grin he fastened a small, flat, yellow tree-shaped object to the rearview mirror.

"Vanilla," he said simply. "Smells good."

"Why'd you take the bag off?"

"What, you aren't supposed to?"

"Well, no, but… never mind. We're off!" Boots made his way back onto the highway and happily split the last pickle with Swifty.

-

Swifty woke to the quiet strains of Bob Seger, Boots tapping his fingers in time on the steering wheel. Swifty played with the ends of a fleece blanket they had discovered in the back, idly watching the head and backlights of approaching cars play off the windshield. On the dashboard lay a discarded, half eaten container of strawberries, bought by the roadside at dusk. Boots drifted slowly off to an exit as the song wound to its closing, chewing thoughtfully on one of the stems. Once off the highway Swifty rolled his window down, letting night's cool wind wash over his face and ruffle his hair. He closed his eyes, enjoying it.

"We've got tonight," he murmured.

"Let's make it last," Boots replied without skipping a beat. The station switched from a commercial to something louder, and he turned it off without another word. "Almost there," Boots informed him.

Downtown Cambridge had bright plastic signs hooked on almost every telephone pole leading down main street, all advertising for the three day festival. Boots parked as close as he could and then rolled from the car, stretching in the middle of the road and gazing down to where various tents, lights, and music could be heard. Swifty followed suit, bending over to retie a shoelace. Boots stole up behind him and snaked an arm around his waist, Swifty responded much the same way, burying his head in Boots' neck a moment and just smiling. The day's earlier troubles seemed to melt away with each step they took along the sidewalk.

-

"Well, I bet they didn't do it like this in 1899," the girl mumbled before throwing back another drink. She was motioning to Swifty and Boots. "So open, so open." Boots was glad his skin tone hid the heat rising to his face.

"Mondie, hush," her companion hissed. "If you were sober you'd be practically marrying them yourself."

"A… a just point. Get me another."

"Another what, miss?" The bartender looked up from polishing a shot glass.

"Another…….. Another."

"What's wrong with Mondie?" A girl to the man's left asked. "I haven't seen her this drunk since she found out that you and Blink…"

"Nothing," Mush said firmly.

"Aw, come on… is it a secret?"

"No."

"Yah it is… secrets, secrets are no fun, secrets are for everyone! Come on, tell me."

"Stop it, Rosie. Mondie, no, put the glass down…"

"Come on," Boots whispered to Swifty. "I'm sure there's another beer tent around here."

"No, no," Swifty murmured back, an amused smile lingering on his face. "Let's stay here."

He sat down next to Rosie with a grin in her direction, careful to keep his hand clamped on Boots' own. Boots settled down on a stool of his own and nodded to the bartender.

"Ah, Red Hook?"

"Of course."

"Boots, did you leave a window down?"

"No… why?"

"I'm just worried about that air-freshener, is all…"

"Don't dwell on it." He paused, then grinned, raising his glass and quoting softly. "Why should we worry? No one will care. Look at the stars, so far away."

Swifty raised his own glass and smiled. "Cheers."

"Cheers."